


You Will Only Break My Heart

by stannigram



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bathroom Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Peter makes bad decisions, Rimming, Teacher Stiles, Teacher-Student Relationship, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stannigram/pseuds/stannigram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter didn't think he could fall this hard for someone, or that he could miss someone so bad. He certainly didn't think that that person would by his teacher, Mr. Stilinski. He also didn't think they would end up having sex in the first floor bathroom and yet here they are a year into a hidden relationship sexing it up in the bathroom. He didn't think that losing him would hurt this bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stilesandpeter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stilesandpeter).



“Mr. Hale, Mr. McCall, care to explain exactly what it is you find so funny about the art of prepositional phrases to the rest of the class?” Came the agitated drawl of Mr. Stilinski as he dramatically ceased writing on the chalkboard and turned his daunting stare on his students.

Hearing the voice stopped Peter from his current mission of making Scott McCall’s life a living hell. Kept Peter from laughing and blowing gusts of air across poor Scott’s ear when he ran his fingers in the long tufts of his friend’s brown hair. Kept Scott from elbowing Peter in the nose every other minute.

To everyone else in the room it would appear that their teacher had grown increasingly tried of his students’ antics to derail the class.

But Peter, well, he knew different. He saw the underlying hurt and jealousy hiding behind the mischievous glint in his teacher’s brown eyes—and God Peter could get lost in those eyes. Saw the slight tug of his mouth fighting a smirk, and to onlookers it would seem as if Mr. Stilinski was fighting the urge to rain morbid obscenities upon his student. Oh, but Peter knew better, oh did he know better.

He knew Mr. Stilinski was furious because he was cuddling up to McCall. He smiled cheekily while he slowly twirled Scott's curls around his finger to further ruffle his teacher's 'feathers.'  

“Funny? There is nothing funny about the art of prepositional phrases, Mr. Stilinski. They show the relationships between an object and it adjectival value. How could something so beautiful be funny at all?” Peter deadpanned and retraced his hand from Scott’s head.

Mr. Stilinski actually rolled his eyes before turning back to the board, “Act out again and I will be forced to call your parents in for a parent conference meeting.”

Peter smiled triumphantly, stopped harassing the boy in front of him because he had gotten what he wanted. What he needed to hear. A promise—you see that was their code, their own language. It meant fucking in the first floor bathroom before Mr. Stilinski’s free period.

Peter looked at the clock. Twenty more minutes—maybe he could harass Scott just a little more.

\--

Hands gripped at his clothes, hastily undoing the zipper encasing his erection, and stroking the hardening flesh of the boy pressed against the stall door.

“Mr. Stilinski—” Peter moans as the older man grips his cock tighter.

“God, Peter,” The older man groaned, and pressed kisses on his shoulder, “I told you it’s Stiles when we’re like this.” He said tempted to bite down on Peter’s shoulder, but thought better of it and licked his way up the boy’s neck. Took Peter’s earlobe between teeth.

“Fuck,” Peter whimpered when Stiles nibbled a little too hard, “Stiles,” he breathed as Stiles quickened the pace of his hand fisting his dick and reached down to fondle his balls. Peter watched as the older man’s hand pulled and tugged, watched it smear pre-come all over the tip of his fingers, and then crashed their lips together. “Need you now, Peter.” Stiles keened and licked his way into Peter’s mouth.

That was the last straw for Peter and Peter pulled the man’s ass cheeks apart to show his glistening hole. Peter worked fast—they didn’t have much time—licking into Stiles until he was squirming and pushing back onto Peter’s tongue.

“What if someone comes in?” Peter remembered the unlocked door as he withdrew his tongue from Stiles.

“Already locked the door. Now shut up and fuck me.” Stiles said as he pulled the boy’s body hard against him—minded the toilet—as Peter pushed into him.

\--

Peter was on his way to economics. He walked with his nephew, Derek, and his friends Scott, Isaac, and Allison. Allison made kissy faces at Scott, and Derek argued over Marvel and D.C. with Isaac. Reminding him of the way he and Mr. Stilinski would argue over Spiderman and batman, and how it usually resulted in their clothes sprawled over the floor and their sweaty bodies pressed in tangled sheets.

Peter wasn’t paying attention—thinking of Mr. Stilinski's muscles clenching around his swollen cock—and he ran straight into someone. He looked up to the man towering above him. Caught the sullen look and the light that glinted off his shiny Sheriff's badge.

“Peter Hale?” It was the Sheriff who asked with Mr. Stilinski in toe.

“Yes?” Peter asked looking between the Sheriff and Mr. Stilinski.

It only took one look for Peter to know they had been found out. That someone had seen the lingering glances, had caught the fumbling hands, or had overheard the vulgar moans coming from behind locked doors. That someone reported whatever it was to the authorities, and he knew when he caught Stiles distraught eyes that they were totally and irrevocably fucked.

“I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you some questions, son.”

\--

Stiles went on trial the third week of December—it was the day of their two-year anniversary.

It wasn’t pleasant. There were teachers and parents and close friends filing into the rows of the courtroom. They all whispered hurtful things as they took their seats. All the old ladies never ‘imagined’ such a ‘sweet boy’ could do such ‘awful’ things to his students.  Some of the nicer parents shoot Stiles sympathetic looks while others muttered ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ when they thought he wasn’t paying attention.

But, nothing hurt as much as the look on the Sheriff’s face. He looked like he had lost faith in his son. Peter could see why, especially after Stiles testified because Stiles had described some pretty hideous false crimes he had committed with Peter. They were not true—you see, Peter had instigated this all before he knew Stiles was his teacher, but his father wouldn’t know that. No one would know that, it seemed, as lie after lie rolled off of Stiles' tongue. 

Peter was called to the stand. He had tried to explain his side of the story but everyone just shot him knowing looks—that Peter seriously wanted to smack right off their overly-sympathetic faces because they obviously didn’t know enough to see Stiles had lied about the things he had done to Peter. The things Peter had done to him.  

And, when everything was over, he was sentenced to seven years in prison.

“Wait for me,” Stiles whispered just loud enough for Peter to hear as he passed by and Peter whispered back “always.” 


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I knew I said this was only going to be three chapters but I wouldn't be able to publish the next part until two weeks from now so I wanted to break it up so you guys weren't waiting for an update forever. :)

_I think about you all the time. Think about your voice growing deeper, your hair growing longer. Think about the way the sunlight hits your skin. The way your smile reaches your eyes—skin crinkling around your blue eyes as your laughter fills a silent room. Think about that laughter filling the silence that encases these four walls entrapping me from the freedom that lies just beyond them._

_I think about how I have sentenced you to that exact same silence—not literally, but metaphorically. I think about the way the townspeople must look at you in the grocery store, like someone who has been plagued, like they don’t gossip and squabble behind your back. How your friends must shy away from you at lunch isolating you from the table, from the pack, when you need it most. How you must feel so alone in your own home, in the quietness of your own room. I think of how you have to sit in that room, without me there, and how you will be reminded of all the times we kissed. Of all the times we made love on that floor._

_I think of how it was me who entrapped you in the coldness of the four walls of that dreaded classroom. Because no matter how far you run, my love, you will never escape the humiliation and shame that lingers in this room I have entrapped you in._

_But, when all that you have is solidarity and desolateness in your soul know that you will always have my heart no matter how far apart we may become, and one day I will come for you and we will go as far away from this as possible. Just know that I still love you._

_With all my love,_

 

_S._

 

Peter looked at Mr. Stilinski’s elegant words scrawled across the carefully folded paper. Memorized the way the words looped lazily across the page, and smiled at the little hearts that graced the tops of the ‘I’s. He thinks it is so totally like Mr. Stilinski to dot his ‘I’s with hearts that he laughed out loud in the abandoned park as he swung on the swing—laughed until he realized that this was all he had left of his teacher, lover, and friend was written letters and expressive narratives. That he would have to learn of his life through blotchy ink and not the warm timbre of Mr. Stilinski’s voice.

He has already read the letter three times throughout the day—he kept it on him at all times, well hidden, but there for him when the quietness of his peers became too much to handle.

He had read it once in the room they used to have sex during his ‘detentions.’ He almost cried as Harris sat behind the desk Mr. Stilinski had once rubbed his cock all over as Peter had taken him from behind. Or when Isaac sat in the chair that Mr. Stilinski had pushed Peter into and ridden his cock until the sun started to set outside. And felt the tears well in his eyes when Scott laid in the spot they had made love for the first time—Mr. Stilinski had laid his jacket out where Peter .

He read it because he had lost his hold on reality, lost in the memories of sweat and coming lingering on the cold hard floors of this classroom. Read it because he got all hot and bothered in the middle of class, and he was missed the knowing looks and smirks Mr. Stilinski would always shoot his way. Pulled it out and pretended it belonged to the chemistry packet he was supposed to be working on so he could pretend Mr. Stilinski whispered his loving words in his ears. Pretended that Mr. Stilinski was standing right in front of him, distracting Peter from his work with eager lips—like so many times he did before.

Read it again during lunch when Isaac and Scott had scooted away as he sat down next to them at their table. Read it because Allison ignored his small hello—she didn’t even smile to acknowledge she had heard him. Read it because Jackson was telling jokes about him screwing the whole teaching staff. Read it because when he told Jackson to kindly shut the fuck up Jackson had said, “don’t you have better things to do him, Hale? Like sucking Harris’ dick?” and everyone in the cafeteria had laughed, even Isaac, Scott, and Allison.

Hid it in the pages of The Heart of Darkness he was pretending to read for English class as he pushed the peas around on his lunch tray. He hid his face behind it so no one could see the agony that pained his face. So they couldn’t see how their words got to him, how they penetrated deep beneath his skin to scar his heart.  So he didn’t tell them he might have been a slut, but it was only ever for Mr. Stilinski. That Mr. Stilinski’s dick would be the only one he would ever willingly put in his mouth.

Somehow, he thought, that wouldn’t get the desired reaction he was hoping for.

The day passed in a dull monotony: after lunch it was fifth period with Mrs. Morrell where she assigned Peter twice as much homework than she usually does. Then it was sixth period English with some substitute Peter couldn't be bothered with, she shot him dirty looks cause she had heard what the other students were whispering about what Peter had done with his pervious English teacher. Then seventh period History, but he skipped, hidding in the bathroom stall to escape the harsh glares that he couldn't escape elsewhere. When the bell rang he left so fast he didn't even run into Derek.

He read it once more in his parked car on the edge of the preserve. He read it this time to gather the strength he needed to face his family. To gather the strength he needed to face the silence that always greeted him when entered his house. Because he had been shunned all day—nothing made Peter’s day more than coming home from a day of being shunned at school to only be shunned by the people he loved the most. Where he should feel warm and fuzzy, but instead felt cold and inadequate.

He can’t look his dad in the eyes for fear of the disgust that lies there. Can’t talk to his mom because she only wants to talk him about feelings and she really can’t understand all the guilty and pain and love eating away at his heart. Can’t visit his older sister Talia and her family because his parents think he will lie about where he is going, off to fuck someone in the middle of the night. Can’t rough-house with Derek anymore because everyone is afraid of hurting him. And never has he felt so alone in his own house. Never had prayed for the touch of another so much as he did in those first few nights after losing Mr. Stilinski.  Never had he wanted someone to hold with his head buried in their chest while he cried and screamed and kicked and just released all this shit he had held deep in his chest himself.

He cleans the dishes without talking to his parents, and when he is done he heads to his room.

He undresses slowly. His hands linger on his flesh, fanning out across his stomach, dragging his nails slowly down toward his the top of his boxers as he imagined his teachers had touching his body. He wishes to say it got him up, but he just couldn't get it up lately. Maybe it was his consciouness. All that pent up guilt he was holding onto. He doesn't know and he put on his pajama pants. Waited for his parents to fall asleep and grabbed a sweater he had stolen from Mr. Stilinski once. Put on his shoes and reached for an old shoe box he had on his bedside table. 

He crawls out his window and walks to the park. This where he finds himself lately. Swinging in the park where he and Mr. Stilinski had first met all those months ago. Where Peter had told that first tiny little lie that had started their doomed relationship in the first place. Where Peter had first suduced Mr. Stilinski for the first time under the false pretense of adulthood. Where he had pratically dug graves for them to lie in.

He read the letter one last time. Folded it back into the little heart orginami shape Mr. Stilinksi had painstaking taken the time to fold it into. Placed into back into the envolope that had been sent to him by someone named Heather, and put it in his shoe box before burying it in the ground next to the tree they once had sex on.  


	3. Chapter 2

_Time moves slowly here, my love. Time moves leisurely here. Time does not move at all here, my love. Time is monotonous here. Time blurs together in a aggravating dullness, until I am not sure if it is winter or spring.  I wake up and my clothes are already on—I don’t have to dress myself, for I wear what I have slept in the night before. My door is opened and I am allowed the day to pass away in the bound false freedom of a prison yard. Bound to the constraints I have tied around my own wrists._

_It is maddening not to know the feel of your hand against mine. To not know the touch of your skin, the taste of your sweat against my tongue, or the love of your body as you place fevered kiss to my pale skin. To not remember the way your voice sounds as you orgasm into my mouth. To not reach out and pull you close in the middle of the night. But, the memories of what I can remember give me hope to pull through the day, and I can only hope the memories you have left of what we once had—and the promise of more—is enough to make you see the light of day._

_With all my love,_

_S._

 

The days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months in agonizing monotony: Peter woke up to an empty house every morning and drove to school everyday, his teachers piled on the homework every night, he ate lunch alone in the library with mountain of books to surround him, he took Derek home after school, and then he would go home and curl up on his bed until he was dead to the world around him. He watched, every day, as the number of friends he had accumulated over the years became increasingly smaller and smaller as the days passed, until the number was seemingly inexistent. Watched, every day, as his dad ate his dinner never once looking at the son—so desperate for his attention—that sat directly across from him. Everyday he never made a sound because he found it was better to stay silent than to say anything at all.

So, Peter immersed himself in his studies to combat the horrid feeling of abandonment that dwelled in his chest. He occupied his time with random thesis papers and academic journals that exceeded well beyond his educational experience. Submerged him self in college applications and pamphlets. Went straight home from school and did little to nothing else but the homework he had been assigned. It was all he had to battle the growing isolation from his peers and family.  All he had to battle the pain that came with losing the connection he had with Mr. Stilinski.

Derek would sometimes invite him to the lame high school parities the jock's would throw when their parents were away. He promised booze, loud music, and all the gay men Peter could possible want. Peter would respectfully decline under the pretense of school work or sudden illness. Wouldn't tell Derek it was really because he didn't want to dirty Derek's already tarnished reputation by appearing at party with him. Didn't want Derek to feel obligated, on Peter behalf, to take care of his own uncle's personal affairs. Even when Derek shots him this pitying look, and shrugs his shoulders before walking away. 

The letters kept arriving at his house every week. They offered little hints of sunshine on his otherwise bleak days. No one questioned who was sending him the letters, and he was thankful because he had no idea who was sending him the letters. He hadn't really thought of a believable back story for the unknown Heather just quite yet. 

He often read them during the day carrying them in the textbooks he was supposed to be reading for class. Their subject content varied greatly from borderline depression to the single most dirtiest words Peter had ever laid eyes on. More often then not though they were filled with words of encouragement and love, and they never really focused on what Mr. Stilinski was going through on the other side of the pen. Peter thanked him every day because he could not handle any more guilt on his consciousness. 

And, at night he would bury them in the shoebox next to the old tree. They gave him the hope he desperately needed to wake up and face the world in the morning, but by the time he woke up all that hope had been buried beneath unwanted sexual fantasies just like the letters where buried underneath piles of earth. Leaving him to face the day with a rage boner he had no intention of taking care of with his hands.


	4. Chapter 3

_I have no friends. No one will talk to me. I find that they are disgusted with me, even the guards will not look at me or speak to me. I am surrounded by men who have murdered entire families and men who have committed crimes that I dear not utter. I enclosed._

_In the night, when I am alone, I find myself dreaming of the times we laid together before the student teacher fiasco. When I was wrapped up in your warm embrace after a particularly rough romp and you would speak so warmly of your friends. How you recounted your youthful tales as you traced unknown shape over my skin. I think of you and hope that you have someone who will get you through this troubling time. Much like I would like to hold you through the night once more._

_Sending my love,_

_S._

Peter has no friends here any longer either. Scott, Isaac, and Allison deserted him within the first few weeks after the initial catastrophe of the trial. They had migrated to sit with the school’s social outcast table. It saddened him because he could see them replacing Peter with Erica and Boyd. It saddened him because it was Erica leaving teasing touches on Scott to watch him get all flustered and not him. It hurt because he couldn’t question Isaac about the purple handprints that had become increasingly visible on the boy’s pale skin as of late.

Only Derek sat with him at his table and he found his presence unbearable. Not that he doesn’t love his nephew, but he wasn’t exactly Mr. Talkative. It was like eating next to a brick wall, and they never did anything but stare at each other in disdain. Derek always looked like he wanted to say something, but it must haven’t have been important because he never said it.

One day Peter gets tired of it and tells Derek to go sit with his friends. He doesn’t want to set and watch as Derek loses all his friends because he feels a familial loyalty to Peter, but Derek never leaves his side. Every day he returns to sit next to him and eat his cafeteria food in silence.

Peter had given up going to the grocery store after school. In hopes of ignoring the cutting words the stores humble patrons whispered behind his back. To ignore the subtle looks of disgust the cashiers shot at him as they rang him up. To avoid the extra tax the workers added to his bill just for him. To dodge any awkward run-ins with Mr. Stilinski’s dad that could happen there. But, his mom had asked him to get some pasta for dinner on his way home from school so he ended up on the pasta aisle searching for rotini shells. 

It is just his luck that Mr. Stilinski’s dad just so happens to be looking for rotini shells as well. He tried to avoid him. Tried to leave before the older man could notice him—before they could make eye contact, and Peter would want to curl up in ball in under the aisle shelves so he would never have to see the light of day again.  Tried to walk faster to the check outline before the dad of his ex-lover could stop him and say how angry he was that he was the cause of his son’s imprisonment. So he could yell at him for most likely causing an early retirement.  

They end up standing next to each other in line anyway, and Peter just stares as the rotini shells slid down the moving surface to the cashiers’ hands. He could feel the man’s eyes burrowing into him and he starts fidgeting as the unhappy employee rings him up. Frowned when the guy refuses to take his money upon realizing who he is talking to and he ended up leaving in a fury.

He is just about to pull out of his parking space when someone tapped at his window, stopping him. The Sheriff is there holding an extra box of pasta shells and motioning for him to roll down the window.  He does and the Sheriff said, “ You forgot something.”

Peter thanks him as he grabbed the box from him and started to roll up the window. The Sheriff stops him again though and they stare at each other for a long while. The Sheriff is looking at him with like he isn’t sure how to go about this, and Peter feels the same way.

“My son, did he, did he really do all those things he said?” And Peter sees what is left of whatever hope he had that his son wasn’t who he said he was.

Peter doesn’t know what to say so he just shakes his head no, and says, “You need to send some of your people over to the Lahey’s while you still can. There is freezer in the basement. That's how you will get him. Just do it quietly. I don't want Isaac to go through what I am going through. The poor boy has already gone through so much and he is going to need all the friends he can get to get through this.”

“What?” The Sheriff said as his face contorted in confusion.

“I see the bruises on Isaac’s body everyday in the locker room.” Peter says like that explains everything and leaves the Sheriff in the parking lot. Hoped that the Sheriff had picked up on the hint as he drove down the road. Hoped the Sheriff could save Isaac before he is the community forced him to retire his position as Sheriff.

When he got home he found the little note on the side of the pasta box. It’s from the Sheriff. His handwriting isn’t as pretty or elegant as his son’s is. It is actually hard to read, but Peter got the jist of it. It was the Sheriff’s way of extending an olive branch, and showed Peter that he had an ally in him. That if Peter ever needed anything the Stilinski’s front door was always opened. It made Peter happier than he had been in a long time and he smiled for the first time since Mr. Stilinski was taken from him.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters, one night. Woo! :D

_Do you remember our little rendezvous in the first floor bathroom of the school? Do_ _you remember how you licked me open? Can you still feel my hands around your cock? Taste my cum on your tongue as you swallow me whole?_ _Remember the press of feverish bodies so desperate to become one? Remember how quick we were to show our love in the darkness of the shadows? But, how afraid we were to show our love in the brightness of day?_

_I am afraid that we were already entrapped in the bleakness of the four walls of the classroom long before I was entrapped in the four walls of this prison, and long before I had entrapped you in the four walls of your own bedroom. Our love had entrapped us from the moment you propositioned me in that park—keeping us from fully enjoying the warmth of the sun, and is that not what love is? Warmth and sunshine and butterflies?_

_I dream of the day that we will break free of the constraints tying to our prison. Dream o the day we can walk hand-in-hand out of the cold bleakness our prison cells and into the warmth of the sunlight._

_Sending my love,_

_S._

Peter re-reads the first paragraph over and over. He is in his car again just at the edge of the preserve. This is where he has resorted—out of fear—to reading the letters Stiles sent him. He is trailed down his tomach as he read. Imagined it was Mr. Stlikinski who swriled his finger tips in the hair that has grown in their to create goosebumps across his sensitive skin like Mr. Stilinski had so often before.

He remembered the feel of Mr. Stilinski's hands, yes, but what he really remembered is the feel of Mr. Stilinski’s mouth kissing his head of his cock before taking him whole. The glorious vibrations Mr. Stilinski moans sent straight through his dick as he laved at Peter blood vien with his tongue. The way Mr. Stilinski could keep up a full conversation while he was going down on Peter’s cock—it was what he missed the most, what he had loved the most.

He gets him hard just thinking about that mouth surrounding him in warmth and wetness, and he cannot get his dick out fast enough. Fumbled the steering wheel up and out of the way, giving him room to jack off freely; moved the back of the chair down so he could see his hands gripping his glistening head with ease.

He moved his free hand teasingly down his stomach, leaving playful touches much like at his teacher would have. Slipped his thumb slowly down his boxers until he was thumbing his silt. Gripped himself tight as he imagined long slender fingers wrapping around him. Jerked off to the thought of his old teacher’s fingers touching him, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the mouth his cock so desperately carved for.

He spit in his hand and got back to working his erection—it wasn’t a mouth but the wetness was enough to pretend. To pretend it was Mr. Stilinski’s spit that ran down his cock and dribbled over his balls, cooling delightfully in the A.C. of the car. It was enough to picture Mr. Stilinski’s head bobbing up and down in between his legs as he watched his cock slipping in and out of that perfect mouth. Enough to imagine the older man pulling off of him with a obscene pop, saliva and come sticking to those pink lips.

His pace quickens—bucking his hips aggressively into his hand—at the image and he feels his orgasm building.  He climaxed to the image of his cum covering the moles on Mr. Stilinski’s cheeks filling his head. When in all reality it had splattered across the leather of his steering wheel.

He collapsed against the seat, brining the letter with him to wipe off the come covering his stomach. He feels gross and disgusted because he is the one who dug their grave and Mr. Stilinski was the only one that got buried in it. But, he cleaned up and headed home feeling guilty that he had taken any sense of freedom from the only person he had ever loved.

When he got home he was greeted by the quietness of an empty house. All that could be heard was the echoing of his footsteps resounding off the empty walls of the empty halls he trudged through, the sound of his backpack jingling as they bounced against each other, the sound of a knob turning and the creak of a door being opened. The sound of cloth rustling to the ground as he dropped his bag by his desk.

He undressed and got in bed. The curtains closed, blocking out the light that tried desperately to shine in through the cracks of his blinds. Pulled his blankets up around his head to block out any light that could possible get in, until he was surrounded in darkness enveloped in it, encased in it, entrapped in it.

He pulled his knees up into his chest. Hugging himself as he breathed in deeply to stop the flood of oncoming tears. To try to stop his heart from breaking, but he couldn’t. So he stared absently into the darkness as he tried to hold the dam up. Tried to collect the pieces of his broken heart in letters from a lover he can no longer see perfectly in his mind so that one day when he came back he can but Peter back together again. 

Outside the sun shined down on butterflies as they weaved and flitted through the dying tree leafs, and Peter found he wished to be with them. Wished to walk in the warmness of the sun, hands intertwined in Mr. Stilinski’s while they basked in the radiance of daylight, traipsing barefooted through the foliage of the persevere as freely as the butterflies did—finally free to show the love they held for one another. To finally hold each other’s hands without any judgment being passed upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question for you guys. Are my sexy-time scenes painfully awkward to read? I must know. Your feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)


	6. Chapter 5

For the first time since the trial two years ago things started to look better for Peter. They catch Mr. Lahey and arrest him so quietly hardly anyone knows until it shows up in the newspaper weeks later. Isaac ends up moving in with Talia and her family so Isaac ends up carpooling in the with Peter and Derek. Peter is thankful for the extra presence in the morning because he couldn’t handle being with his nephew all day. He feels bad, though, that his plan had worked. Revealing Mr. Lahey had diverted everyone’s attention from him to Isaac, and it gave him sometime to collect his thoughts. To breath freely and just exist without feeling eyes on him all the time. He feels bad about it sometimes, though, when he sees the sadness that clings to him and the way people shoot him pitying looks.

Peter finds a sort of semblance in his everyday life after that. He studies hard and soon his GPA is surpassing everyone in his class. He trains hard for the upcoming basketball season and he leads his team to the championships. He reads the letters Mr. Stilinski sends him, and at night he sneaks into the Stilinski’s house to curl up in Mr. Stilinski’s bed. Most of the time he jerks off tangled up in his lover’s blankets. Smelling his fading scent—he would feel creepy for doing this if it wasn’t for the breakfast and cup of coffee the Sheriff leaves on the bedside table in every morning with a note telling him to have a good day.

Sometimes the house is empty and Peter will take a shower there. Sometimes the Sheriff is eating dinner in the kitchen and sometimes Peter will join him. Sometimes they sit in silence. Sometimes the Sheriff asks him how everyone is treating him. Sometimes Peter tells him about Jackson and his gang but most of the time Peter ignores that question. Some times he will tell him about Harvard, or he’ll ask him about the recent football game and whom he was rooting for in the next game instead. They never talk of how their relationship got started or his son. The silence they often find settling around them in isn’t a tense silence it is companionable and Peter often takes refuge in them.  

People have for the most part have stopped harassing him. They just kind of cease to acknowledge him, and it feels like the world has turned him into a ghost. It is such an ugly feeling that Peter almost wishes they would go back to their taunting and cruel ways. Almost.

There are times, though, when the boys in the looker room hurt him in ways he wished they hadn’t. He doesn’t see how someone could be so against something like homosexuality and still participate in it just to hurt someone who is. Doesn’t understand how sucking a teacher’s cock justifies what they do to him. Danny finds them some times and fends them off Peter. He helps clean him up, and offers Peter his number just incase Peter ever wants to talk. Peter thanks him, but drops out of athletics anyway.

It is days like this that Peter wishes he had Mr. Stilinski in the flesh instead of loving words scrawled out hurriedly on crumpled paper. So he could wrap his arms around the older man and cry. So Mr. Stilinski could press kisses to his forehead while he promised to kick all those kids asses. So he would have someone to hold him through the nightmares. But, all he had was the lingering smell of Mr. Stilinski’s sweat on his bed sheets to help fend off the nightmares.

His eighteenth birthday comes—it strange how two years had passed in the blink of an eye—and he receives a letter from Mr. Stilinski. He narrates the way he plans the surprise birthday sex. All innuendoes and heated glances from across the bar. It involves a lot of frosting on skin and licking bodies clean. Mr. Stilinski has even included a lot of pictures and accurate drawings of the scenes he depicts. It leaves Peter hot and bothered all day, and he can’t sit still through the small party Derek and Isaac throw for him.

He gets his acceptance letter to Harvard a few days later. He hides it in the shoebox that holds the rest of his letters. He is so happy for the first time in a long time that nothing can burst his little of bubble of joy that was created by the prospect of finally getting away from all of this. No one could stop him from walking around with a giddy smile of his face. Not even Jackson or his strained relationship with his parents could touch him. Nothing could touch him. That is until Mr. Stilinski’s letter stopped arriving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is really short, but the next three will be pretty long. There was some manipulative Peter going on here. :) Anyway, there is only three more chapters left!


	7. Chapter 6

Peter had never been more furious in his life. It has been four months since he had last received a letter from Mr. Stilinski. He kept expecting something, especially today of all days. At least a small congratulation, written out on a yellow page of the book Mr. Stilinski was currently reading, but he got nothing. No scrawling ink etched into white pages promising words of warmth and love, no tiny letters folded into tiny hearts, and no more envelopes addressed to Peter Hale by the one named Heather.

Peter got angry and hurt and when the letters stopped coming. He understood that any number of things could have happened to Mr. Stilinski. For all he knows he could be dead—but his dad would have told him, so that certainly is not it. But, in the short time Mr. Stilinski had stopped writing him he had began to feel like Mr. Stilinski had moved on. And this doubt, it had grown and grown until he begun to believe that what they had was not even real. Started to believe the whispers that echoed through the halls of his school, through the walls of his house, through the endless expanses of his mind.

In the night visions of Mr. Stilinski sprawled over his boyish body danced in his head. Hands rubbing soothing circles on his hips as he kissed his way up Peter’s body. Lips moved against his skin as warm air had awoken every nerve in his body. Heated words whispered in his ear, words of love and loss, of reassurance and discouragement, of freedom and imprisonment.

He could hear it know, though. Could hear the lies and deceit. Could see him turning into just another boy who had fallen prisoner to the promise of an older man’s sweet words.

He would shift and change until his own body was no longer his own, and Mr. Stilinski was calling out another’s boy just as sweetly as he did for Peter. Promising him the same things he did Peter. Telling they boy to call him Mr. Stilinski in such intimate settings as he kisses him. Teasing him with a knowledge tongue as the boy is swept up in his lies.

Peter wakes in his own body cold and alone, a war waging in his mind. A sleepy mind providing lies to fuel Peter’s growing insecurity. His wakeful mind knows the truth through. Knows he was the one who lied. Who placed deceitful kiss along Mr. Stilinski’s jaw until all Mr. Stilinski could do was return the favor. Knows he is the one who sent both their lives spiraling downward, and maybe it his guilty consciousness trying to put the blame on someone else that are giving him these nightmares. But, he can’t shake these nightmares, can’t shake the doubt they are breeding in Peter, and he doesn’t really know if he wants to stop them.

\-- 

Shortly after the nightmares started he stopped visiting the park. Leaving the letters to collect cobwebs under the soil Peter had buried them beneath. They follow him, though, crawling up through the soil to haunt him in his sleep, and after awhile Peter stopped sleeping altogether. The thought of Mr. Stilinski groping a faceless cellmate, whispering tender words as he pushed into him had Peter throwing up in his often, so he stopped eating. His parents finally began to express some concern, but Peter pushes them away because they would be unwilling to understand anyway.

The day of his graduation came and went. He smiled and clapped after the valedictorian’s speech, even though it should have been Peter up there giving a farewell speech to his classmates. Even though all he wanted to do was hide behind his cap and tassel and cry. He put on fake smile, not even trying to pretend he was pretending, when Scott and Allison told him how much they would miss him. He took his pictures with Derek and Isaac while Talia fretted over Peter’s hair. Then he went home alone, skipping his own graduation party, and screamed into his pillow.

Without school, his life slipped into unseemly disorder, blurring together in sluggish glimpse of a life unlived: It became apparent one day when he looked in the mirror, and he couldn’t recognize himself under the feebleness of the man looking back at him, that he needed to leave Beacon Hills. He had two more months left till school started in the spring, but he knew if he stayed till then there wouldn’t be anything left of him to move.

\-- 

He packed up his bags and left. He told no one he was going or where. They didn’t know about his acceptance to Harvard, or the apartment Mr. Stilinski’s dad had signed for him in Massachusetts. He didn’t want anyone to know why he had left. He felt this was the only way to be free from what had happened here, the only way to get away from it all, the only way to be free from it all.

\-- 

The pain and hurt from the loss of communication with Mr. Stilinski still follows him as he walks the prestigious halls of his new school. He tries hard to push it away the doubt that had begun to accumulate over the months since. Tries to stop daydreaming of his crotch pressed hard against Mr. Stilinski’s. So he can move on like Mr. Stilinski obviously had. 

Soon he lost himself in a sea of bodies, one-night stands, and faceless fucks in the dimly lit bathroom stalls of unknown bars. Sometimes it satisfies the vindictive parasite that had latched it self onto Peter’s soul to know he would be hurting Mr. Stilinski just as much as he had hurt Peter. Other times it left him unhappier than he was before and he left the stalls feeling his soul breaking.

\-- 

He met _her_ in his second year. They had trig together and she sat next to him on the first day of class. She handed him the pencil he dropped on the floor with a look that made Peter feel like he is the dumbest person in the world.  Said her name is Lydia like he is the scum of the Earth and she shouldn’t be talking to him because he would never be on her level. He liked her instantly and he likes to think she does too.

She had strawberry blond hair, pale skin, and a style that everyone in Harvard was envious of—very classy. Very expressive in the way she expressed her feelings.  She was the kinda girl who knows to get what she wants. She was the kinda girl who was going places, but she was the kind of girl who hides her smarts to make her boyfriends feel smarter than they are.

It turns out she was actually really amazing at math and they spent many nights conversing over theory in a coffee shop by the campus. They went out to parties and got shitfaced drunk. They went to concerts and danced in the middle of mosh pits. They went shopping and to the gym together. They went around doing all the things Peter had skipped out on in high school, and she helps him remember the way to smile again. She helps him remember the way it was to be free.

They spend other nights pouring over their homework in a hidden alcove in the back of the library. They laughed over their silly mistakes and indulged in their love of chocolate into the early morning hours.

It’s how they are when he first kisses her. She’s leaning over the desk that separates them, chest peacocking out over his math book, staring at him expectantly with he mouth partly open. Her hair has caught her hair, and he is mesmerized by it. His tongue flicks out to lick her lips clean, and she smiles sweetly before pulling him in for a kiss. It is sweet and gently, nothing like the men in the bathrooms, and Peter likes it. Basks in it even.

They start dating halfway through the year, and she is great, really she is, but his hands don’t know what to do with her breast or her clit so he avoids sex like the plague. He ends it faster than it started, and she leaves him angrily, because he was probably the first to refuse her, and no amount of apologizing was ever going to fix her broken pride.

They never talked again after that and Peter fell into that same old habit. Letting men—old enough to be his father—push him up dirty bathroom walls as they moved roughly in him.

He never gets their names or numbers or asks to see them again. In the morning the only evidence of what happened the night before remained on his skin in the purple bruises on his collar, the fingerprints engraved into the skin of his thighs, and the little red cuts littering his lower back from where the men had pushed him a little to hard in the edges of the metal toilet paper dispenser.

And then, just when his professors started to worry about his health, he met Matt Deahler. He had a cute smile and a charming personality. Peter isn’t sure if he really likes him or he just wants that sense of intimacy he had been longing for sense Mr. Stilinski was taken from him. Peter thinks he can be happy with this kid anyway so when the kid asks all suave and shy the same time Peter can’t say no. They start dating the summer of Peter’s third year, almost four years since the trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, Peter is making bad choices! What have I done! Anyway, two more chapters left and then this one is done. Hope you liked it?


	8. Chapter 7

Being with Matt gave Peter the chance to experience a lot of things he hadn’t before: holding hands in the park, kissing on the subway, going out to restaurants and movies, waking up to see sun shining off his lovers face in the morning.  With Matt he could forget Mr. Stilinski. He could move on and finally be free of his past he had become oppressed by. And, for a time everything was good, until it really, really, really wasn’t.

\--

Matt had gotten possessive after they had moved in together. To the extent that Peter was afraid to leave the apartment, afraid that he would wake up in the middle of the night with Matt’s hands around his neck, afraid to tell anyone he was afraid—out of fear of what Matt might do to him if he ever found out. The only way Peter could get away from his fear was in arms of strange men.

And so he fell pack into the same old routine: men in the backroom of a bar, faceless fucks in the dark alleyways, and all the pain that came with it to drown out the fear.

One day, after Peter had come home from class, he found Matt standing over a body, clothes drenched in someone else’s blood. He’d seen this man before in the flickering light of subway’s bathroom, had known the feel of his body, saw the smile that had once graced his know ghostlike face. Peter had like this man the most out of his countless fucks. He had the nicest smile—the closest to Mr. Stilinski’s—and know he was staring down at this lifeless body as his blood stained in the white carpet of his apartment.  

Peter was certain Matt was talking to him, trying to convince him everything was going to be okay, calling him honey with a sickly sweet smile on his face, but Peter wasn’t hearing any of it. He was stuck looking at the blood bath flooding his apartment. He was frozen until he felt blood warming his arm, fingers nails digging into his skin. And then he is running.  

\--

He ended up at Lydia’s apartment. He hadn’t seen her in two years. Hadn’t been there in a little over that, but he still remembered every twist and turn and pothole he had to hit to get there. Still remembered the way the artificial light of the apartment silhouetted her curves in the open door. Still remembered how many steps it took to get from the stairs to her door.

The door was still the same obnoxious pink color, and he stared at it for several minutes until he got up the courage to finally knock. He rolled his eyes as he heard her yelling at someone, presumably a man, to put his pants on for ‘heaven sakes.’ Smiled as two seats of foot falls fumbled in their hast to look presentable. It remained him of when Mr. Stilinski would have to rush to put their clothes back on during passing periods.

As he waited, Peter reflected on his choice in men. He wanted to laugh it off, because really it was horrible, but he really felt like crying. He couldn’t cry, though, because somewhere deep inside him something had broken, something important, something that could never be put back together. Leaving him to feel hollow and meaningless in the immensity of what was going on around him.

He had known this was a stupid idea as he heard the doorknob turning. Knew she cloud turn him away. Cloud leave him alone in his hour need, rejected and hurt, but then she is standing in the middle of the open door way.

“Peter?” Lydia sounds breathless and a flush covers the cleavage that is revealed by the loose rob she had tied on in a hurry.

“Am I interrupting something?” Peter asked and his voice cracked a little over before he rushed to smooth out in order to seem all right.

She shakes her head yes. She is about to close the door when Peter blurts out, “I had sex with my high school teacher.”

She must understand that Peter is in desperate need for someone to talk to because she said over her shoulder, “Aiden, honey, will you but some hot chocolate on for us? Three cups,”     

She ushered him and pushed him onto the small sofa. He feels weird sitting here on the couch he used to make out on with Lydia, and her new half naked boy toy standing only a few feet away from him whilst the guy makes him hot chocolate.

When the guy finishes the hot chocolate he hands it to Peter to sip on. He sits down next to him and the wait in silence until Lydia, not dressed in pjs, came out the bedroom. She carried a blanket with him and they wrapped themselves in it. She and Aiden look at him expectantly.

Then he just started talking about everything he had kept bottled up for so long. Told them all the men before Mr. Stilinski, about seeing him in the bar and pursuing him in the park, about the lying and the fights, about finding he was a teacher, and how he had to make his teacher fall in love with him again. He told them about the trial, and the letters. All the pain and the men in the bars and Matt and the body and calling the police and the running.

He fell asleep wrapped up in a blanket, cuddled up between Lydia and her boyfriend, with Lydia whispering, “Oh sweetie.”

\--

“What are you doing here, Derek?” He asks as he moves to unlock the door of his apartment.

Derek doesn’t answer he just holds up a pack of beers with an innocent smile. Peter raises his eyebrows because that really doesn’t answer his question, and it is dumb that Derek would think it would. He welcomed him in and told him to make himself at home, anyway.

He acted strange, Peter noticed. He wouldn’t look Peter in the eyes. His movements were awkward and uncomfortable unlike the grace and control he. He would open his to say something but he often thought better of it. Peter was sure he was hiding something, but what Peter had no idea.

Peter put his keys on the counter, “Are you hungry?”

“No, I just ate.”

Peter nods. He stumbles around in the cabinets trying to find some glasses, to occupy his time before he finally has to speak to his nephew. There is only so long one can pretend before they begin to look desperate, only so long one can hand unbearable silence. Derek is obviously not saying anything soon so Peter asks, “How did you find me?”

“I asked Mr. Stilinski’s dad.”

Peter hears the ‘hiss’ of Derek popping his beer can open. Tries not to drop the glass he is pulling out of his cabinet, and when he doesn’t, he places it down on the counter. Derek awkwardly offered him a beer and he opened it before it is poured into his mug.

Derek reached into the bag by his seat. He pulls out a stack of envelopes bound together by a black rubber band. There has to be at least one hundred of them altogether. Peter stares at them detachedly determined not to cry, but he can felt the tears coming. Feel the burn in his eyes as the water started to blur his vision.

“What are those?” Peter asked faintly, even though he already knew what they are. He can see the name Heather sprawled neatly under the blackness of the rubber band.

“I noticed these kept coming to you. I was curious who Heather was so I read a letter. I figured they were just Mr. S’s way of missing with you, so I kept them away for you. I thought he would tire with you eventually. They kept coming, though, and so I read one.” He stops for a minute, collecting his thoughts before continuing, "He obviously wasn't playing around with you."

Derek tells him to sit on one of the bar stools. Urged him to sit before opening one of the letters that had been opened already, and told Peter to read it. Peter pulled it out with a sense of dread. He doesn’t want to know what great proclamation of love Mr. Stilinski had written to. He doesn’t want to realize how much of an ass he has been. Isn’t ready to find he has fooled himself into believing he was free from his past, but he reads it anyway.  

Peter doesn’t want to read it anymore. Mr. Stilinski is putting on the page everything Peter had done in the past four years. He hoped that Peter isn’t sleeping around, but he would understand if he did. He hoped that whomever Peter was nestled in during the night loved him truly and unconditionally. Hoped that they treated him good, and gave him the freedom that Mr. Stilinski never could give him. That if Peter had truly found someone worth his while that Mr. Stilinski sent his blessing because he only wanted what Peter wanted, and if Peter wanted not to love him anymore it was okay.

God, how could he have believed this man had ever stopped loving him? How could he have wanted to hurt this beautiful man after everything Peter had put him through? He knows it was because he was hurt and lashed out in a childish way. In a stupid way, and he knew as he sat he had never fully stopped loving Mr. Stilinski. Had never fully broken free of his constraints, instead only constricting them tighter on his skin. He wants to cry in frustration, he wants to scream in disgust, he wants to kick and fight until all the anger he feels at himself is gone from his body and all that is left is hollowness.

Derek must sense his rising distress because he has started talking again.

“I am so sorry Peter. I was the one who told one you. I didn’t know what was going on.” Derek whispers and Peter knows he is really sorry, but Peter doesn’t want to forgive him.

Peter really just wants to yell at him to get out, to leave him and never come back, but he understand why Derek did it. Understands Derek needs to be told that what he did was okay so he can get rid of whatever guilt he was harboring. So Peter does just that, pulled him close and whispered, “its okay, Derek,” over and over until Derek had fallen asleep. Even though it should have been the other way. Even though Peter couldn’t sleep at all because he was so disgusted with himself.

\--

Derek stayed with him until after he got his degree. They got an apartment back in California. Just a few towns over from Beacon Hills where Peter had been offered a job at a law firm there.

Their apartment was spacious, and he spent a lot of his time rearranging the furniture and look for the perfect wall décor. By the time he had finished it had begun to feel like home. A place he could feel safe from everyone outside the four walls of their tiny apartment.

Derek got a job working construction on the new elementary school the town was building. He often brought home his friends after a long day of work, and they would all sit around watching baseball and drinking cheap beer. Sometimes one of the boy’s would flirt with him, but Peter would let their superficial compliments slid right off him.

Peter had realized many things over the years and he could no longer deny how childish he had acted the past few years. He could no longer deny the false sense of freedom he had lived in for so long. He could not chain himself to someone else when he had so long ago been chained to someone else. He could not pretend like someone else would set him free. He could no longer deny the only one who could truly release these restraints from his mind was a man he had entrapped behind steel bars. So he smiles when he is admired but never returns the favor.

\--

Peter worked hard at his job. Had gained the praise from the higher ups. They asked him to business meetings and financial hearings. He helped manage the books whenever he could, and one day one of the older lawyers asked him if he would like to go into a partnership a few towns over. Peter could not say no.

For the next two years Peter spent all of his time building up his law firm with the help of Derek. He made plans with contractors, and talked to banks about loans. He schedule interviews with potential lawyers, and even convinced one of his law teachers at Harvard to set up an internship with the school. He opened for their first clients in court, and left feeling surprisingly triumphant when they had won.

\--

It was the first time Peter had been back to Beacon Hills since he had left all those years ago. In reality it had been only been seven years, but to him it had felt like thirty enclosed in a tiny prison cell.

He had come back to dig his shoebox full of letter out of the ground of the old Park.

He sees a small note tacked to the tree his shoebox is buried next to. He looks around but he doesn’t see anyone in sight. He takes the note down and starts to read it. He is interrupted by the sound of footfalls rustling the leaves.

 “My, my, Mr. Hale you have been a naughty boy.” He hears the familiar laugh ringing through the little field.

He turns and there he is. Standing in some worn jeans and an old grey Henley. He is so close Peter can see the flecks of black in his brown eyes. So close he reach out and run his fingers through his hair, but he doesn’t want to in fear he will disappear, in fear that this was all some horrible trick of the mind.

“Mr. Stilinski?” Peter breaths out as he reaches for the older man. 

The man laughs, “Peter, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s Stiles when we’re like this,” and he pulled him close as he pressed little kisses to his impatient lips.

There is a lot they need to talk about, Peter knows. A lot that they need to discuss, but that can all wait because when Stiles pulls him in close, it feels like the summer day Peter waited for after a long winter's night. Because when he runs his hand through Peter’s hair, it finally feels like the shackles that have been holding him prisoner through all these years are released. Because when he kisses Peter, it feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here is another chapter. Stiles is out! They have reunited! WOOO. One more chapter left. :)


	9. Epilogue

Their shirts are off before Peter can even get the keys in the door to his apartment. Mr. Stilinski—Stiles, he reminds himself—pulls away from their biting kisses long enough to open the door. Peter doesn’t care that old man Jonan is looking at them like they are the fucking scum of the earth. Doesn’t care that Derek is telling him that he will see him later as he awkwardly pulls on his jacket. All he cares about is the feel of Stiles skin against him, the feel of an old lover’s breath against his neck, the warmth pressing into his thigh, and the feel of familiar skin skimming over his own.

\--

It takes some time to get used to Stiles being here. Takes some time for Peter to get used Stiles’ name rolling off his tongue so freely and deliciously. It takes some time for Peter to get used to being able to kiss Stiles whenever he wants to, to plant one on him in the diner or when Stiles brings him lunch on his lunch break. Takes a while for Peter to tell Stiles about all the guys and Lydia and Matt. Takes even longer for them to finally sleep in the same bed because Stiles isn’t used to beds being so soft. It really, really, takes some time for Derek to get his goddamn shit together and treat Stiles like a normal fucking human being. But, once they get _it,_ it feels so fucking good Peter isn’t sure what to do with him self.

Stiles is good to him just like he always has been. He makes them breakfast in the morning, eggs, bacon, ham, and a dish of fruit on the side—because Stiles’ worry manifests in the way of their diet. He brings it to Peter in bed, kissing him in between bites of food. He makes them pancakes after a particularly mind-blowing romp, and Derek groans every time because he _really_ doesn’t need to know that Peter is being particularly sexually gratifying to his old teacher.

At night Stiles holds him as he lets out all the pent up guilt and frustrations out. Soothing him with placating kisses and calming touches. Even though he should be the one holding Stiles through his night terrors. It makes him feel ten times guiltier than the he already had been, but he likes being able to wake up to next to his lover and see his sleepy face so he lets those feelings go.

One day Stiles finds Peter reading some of his old letters and blushes so furiously that Peter thinks blood is about to come flushing out of his nose. He tries to take them from Peter because he embarrassed of them, but Peter hoards them in his shoebox because they are after all his.

They watch all the Marvel and DC Stiles missed out on. It results in long arguments over which company is better and almost always ends up with clothes littering the floor. Stiles on top of him grinding their aching cocks together on the living room couch. On more than one occasion Derek and his girlfriends walk in on Peter going down on Stiles. It makes for interesting conversations on Friday night dinners.

\--

For the first year everything is good. Stiles takes Peter with him to see his dad, and they have family dinners every weekend. His dad had long since retired from the police station, and had moved to a few towns over. He had met a woman, Mellissa. She was nice and didn’t mind Peter all too much. Sometimes they would end up staying the night and Peter loved seeing Stiles and his father cuddle up on the couch watching Sunday night football. Peter takes pictures of them when they aren’t looking and Mellissa would put them in a book.

Stiles convinces Peter to visit his family. The first time Peter goes alone, afraid of what might happen if he does. It is weird coming back to this house where he had been forged his prison cell as confused child. Now he is back a confident man who had many mistakes in his past but had accepted them, freeing himself of the chains he had crafted in this very house. It is kind of terrifying and he finds himself wishing for Stiles encouraging words, but Derek tells him he will be fine.

Talia welcomes him with open arms, his mom has tears in her eyes, and his father looks happy to see him. He is introduced to a lot of new additions to the family, and when he leaves his Dad asks him to invite Stiles over next time. He says of course and sure enough he has a fumbling over dressed Stiles occupying him next week to dinner. He kisses the older man without even thinking about as the sit down at the table. They both freeze afraid of what the others might do, but no one says anything and life goes on.

\--

They want to build a house in the mountains. A little cottage where the neighbors won’t feel like they need to hide their children from Stiles, a little place they could have all to themselves. It would give Stiles something to do, a reason to get out into the world without being accosted by the world.

Stiles can’t land a good job that isn’t working from his laptop in the apartment, and Peters still has to pay off his student loans. So, they can’t afford the move, can’t afford the wood to build the house, can’t afford the contractors to them build it for them.

They spend a lot of time planning it out, though. Derek helps with the blue prints. It is simple in it is design. Four rooms: one bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and one bathroom. It would be enough just for them, and it wouldn’t be to far from Peter’s job. It would be just far enough to be away from the wary parents and the upset adults that live within the city limits.

It’s two years later when a particularly nasty family moves in next door, and set their apartment on fire, that they finally start building the little cottage in the woods. 

\--

The sun is shinning through the gaps between the leaves, warming Peter’s bare skin. Stiles is lying next to him placing lazy kisses to his chest. Peter is running his hands absentmindedly through the older man’s thick hair. Stiles stubbles traces tickling patterns as he places soft kisses down his stomach, stirring his already spent loins. The older man fingers ghosts over his manhood—as Stiles so liked to call it—and he stops his kisses to smirk mischievously at Peter. Peter doesn’t want his teasing right now. No, he wants that delicious wetness around his cock, so he grabs at the man’s backside, drawing him towards his growing erection.

Peter laughs when he grabs Stiles’ ass to pull the man closer, and Stiles knocks over the picnic basket in his surprise. The wine spilling as the bottle tips over and soaks through the blanket they are laying on. Stiles sits up and tips the bottle back up, getting off of Peter in the process.  Peter tries to pull him back on top of him but Stiles shakes his head no.

“It’s time to get up.” He says reaching out his hand to help the younger man up. Peter pulls a face not wanting to leave the warmth of this place.

“We are going to be late.” He looks at him with the look Peter has dubbed his 'teacher' look. Peter wants to say something about being a naughty boy and being punished but he isn't sure they are ready for that yet. He keeps that to himself.

Peter sighs taking Stiles’ hand, being pulled up to the older man, and they kiss sweetly when Peter gains his balance. Stiles hands him his jeans and Peter bends over, giving him a show as he shimmies his jeans up his body. Stiles laughs and folds up the blanket, putting their plates and wine back in the picnic basket.

Stiles grabs Peters hand, intertwining their fingers together, and leads Peter down the weathered path.  They walk in a comfortable silence on their way back to the car. It gives Peter a moment to appreciate the beauty of the man before him. The way he had finally grown into his gangly body, filling out the shirt and tight pants he was wearing. He must have felt Peter’s eyes on him because he turns his head, and winks at him before laughing. Peter sees the laugh lines forming around the eyes of his aging face. He smiles to himself because he had been the one to put them there.

When they are like this, he feels they are finally as free as those butterflies he had seen through his window all those years ago. Walking freely hand-and-hand in the sun like the butterflies flitting freely through the trees.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is. I know it was not your average Student/Teacher fic so I hoped you liked it. :)


End file.
